Matthew did not argue, and by the time that Elspeth left the flat after breakfast, he had fallen into a dreamless, untormented sleep. Elspeth looked in on him before she left; he appeared so vulnerable, she thought, so innocent, as men do in sleep. The strongest, the most masculine of men, she thought, can look like a baby when his head is on the pillow and his eyes are closed. It reminded her of human vulnerability; here we are with all our human pretensions, with our mastery of the world about us, with our clever machines and our elaborate conceits, and we are no more than children who must, like the smallest of creatures, surrender to sleep and the powerlessness of oblivion.
82. Shocking Developments
Quietly closing the door on Matthew, Elspeth went about the task of sorting out the two problems troubling her over-stressed husband. Several telephone calls later, an arrangement was made to meet a surveyor in Moray Place at noon that day. That achieved, she then telephoned the gallery and suggested that she meet Pat and Kirsty at Big Lou’s at 10.30 a.m. Kirsty, who took the call, was doubtful at first, but agreed to the suggestion when Elspeth made it clear that Matthew had authorised the meeting and would expect her to be there. This was not strictly speaking true; Matthew did not even know of the meeting, but Elspeth interpreted his earlier assent to her sorting things out as clearly covering a meeting at Big Lou’s.
Elspeth was there first, and Big Lou was already bringing her coffee to the table when Pat and Kirsty arrived. Elspeth noticed Big Lou’s glance at Kirsty’s tight jeans and knew immediately that she had an ally. Good, she thought; Big Lou understands.
‘Well,’ Elspeth began, as the two young women sat down in front of her. ‘Let’s waste no more time. As you are aware, the economy of this country is in a parlous state.’ She paused, watching the effect of her words. There was a frown from Kirsty; Pat, although attentive, gave nothing away. ‘So unfortunately one of you has to go. And it’s you, Kirsty. Sorry about that, but there we are. You’ll be paid up to the end of next week, but you can have your remaining time off. Sorry about this.’
For a moment Kirsty said nothing. Then, without any warning, she leaned across the table, and pulled Elspeth’s hair. Elspeth, taken aback, screamed, and Pat, after a few seconds of shock, turned in her seat and seized Kirsty’s long blonde hair, giving it a sufficiently sharp tug to elicit a howl of protest from the other girl.
Big Lou, witnessing this from behind her counter, lost no time in making her way round the side and rushing over to join the affray. She seized Kirsty’s hair on the other side – that is, on the opposite side of the head to that engaged by Pat – and tugged hard. There were further howls and a low hissing sound that came from one of them, although it was not immediately apparent from whom.
Big Lou was, of course, the most powerful of the three, and she soon succeeded in lifting Kirsty from her seat, by her hair. She then changed her grip, seizing her by the right arm and half pushing, half dragging her to the door. In the course of this short journey, the tight jeans split, a jagged San Andreas fault opening across the over-taut denim.
‘Oot,’ said Big Lou, bundling her out. ‘Nae ripped jeans in here.’
Pat now lent Elspeth a comb so that she could tidy her ruffled hair. They were all shocked by what had occurred, but it did not take long for the conversation to return to normal. This was not before Big Lou had confessed that she had always had her reservations about Kirsty and that her departure was by no means premature. Pat agreed with this, and complimented Elspeth on her prompt and decisive action.
They spent the next hour in pleasant conversation about books. Big Lou had been reading William Dalrymple’s Nine Lives, a book about the various forms of spirituality to be encountered in India. ‘I’m reading about the Jains at the moment,’ she told them. ‘Do you realise that they wear masks when they ride bicycles so that they don’t destroy insects by swallowing them? And do you realise that they watch their footfall very closely to avoid crushing any living creature?’
‘It must be difficult,’ said Pat. ‘I suppose I crushed a lot of things walking down from Marchmont this morning.’
‘The world is full of suffering and death,’ said Elspeth.
After this conversation, Elspeth made her way over to Moray Place. The new surveyor was waiting for her, and they went into the flat together.
‘Very nice place this,’ said the surveyor. ‘One has to pay for these flats, though.’
‘How much?’ asked Elspeth.
‘Over a million,’ said the surveyor. ‘Or thereabouts – in this market. Very nice. Nice feel to it.’
‘Matthew was told that a supporting wall had been removed,’ said Elspeth. ‘Bruce Anderson said that the ceiling is being held up by that Chinese cabinet over there.’
The surveyor burst out laughing. ‘Him? He said that? What absolute nonsense. Here, I’ll show you.’
And with that he strode across the room and gave the Chinese cabinet a good push. It moved several inches, and when he pushed it again, it moved some more.
‘See? Absolute nonsense. And that’s a strengthened beam in there – I’m pretty sure of it. You’re quite all right.’
‘So Moray Place isn’t going to fall down after all?’ asked Elspeth.
‘Fall down? Of course not. Moray Place is very sound structurally. These are beautifully built houses – strong as the Rock of Gibraltar – if the Rock of Gibraltar is still strong, that is.’
‘One used to use the Bank of England as a metaphor for strength,’ remarked Elspeth.
The surveyor laughed. ‘Used to,’ he said. ‘But that’s another question altogether.’
‘So everything’s fine?’
‘Of course it is. This is a lovely flat in a very fine part of town. There’s nothing wrong with Moray Place.’
They left the flat shortly thereafter. ‘You can reassure your husband,’ said the surveyor. ‘Tell him that he’s made a very wise purchase. I’m even a bit envious!’
Elspeth returned to India Street. Matthew had got out of bed but was still in his dressing gown. He looked at her half expectantly, half guiltily.
‘I’ve just come back from Moray Place,’ she said. ‘You know what the surveyor said?’
Matthew put his hands to his head. ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t want to hear.’
‘Matthew, my darling! He said that it was a very wise purchase! And he moved the Chinese cabinet. Nothing happened, Matthew, nothing!’
It took a moment or two for her words to sink in. When they did, he moved towards her, throwing his arms around her, showering her with kisses. It was a complete transformation; the self-doubting husband she had left that morning was nowhere to be seen; the gentle optimist she had married had returned.
‘And?’ he asked tentatively. ‘The gallery?’
She nodded. ‘Sorted out.’
‘Maturely?’
She hesitated. Was there much difference, she wondered, between the world of Olive and Tofu on the one hand and the adult world on the other? Not really.
‘More or less,’ she said.
83. A Hinterland of Regret
Over the next few days, Domenica and Angus slipped naturally into a daily routine as peaceful and as soporific as the Tuscan countryside itself. Breakfast was taken on the patio at the front of the villa, gazing out over the gently rolling countryside to the little hill town of Sant’ Angelo in Colle in the distance. Sitting over large cups of milky coffee, they discussed the day ahead with all the urgency and anxiety of those who knew that they had nothing to do – that is, with none of either. An outing might be suggested, but not necessarily acted upon – perhaps a run down to the abbey at San’ Antimo or over to Monte Oliveto Maggiore to view the frescoes of Giovanni Bazzi, il Sodoma. ‘Such an unfortunate nickname,’ said Domenica. ‘Like all nicknames, so unkind.’
Angus did not think that true: there were affectionate nicknames, too, but he did not argue; not here in this setting, with the heat beginning to make the hills
shimmer and the air fill with the orchestral shriek of insects.
‘I’d also like to see his frescoes in Siena,’ he said. ‘In the Basilica of San Domenico, Domenica.’ He paused. ‘He depicts the life of St Catherine of Siena. Such a tiresome saint, I’m afraid, with all her fasting and constant letter-writing. But she meant well, I suppose. She eventually gave up water – an ultimate sign of piety.’
‘And?’ asked Domenica.
‘That was the end,’ said Angus. ‘Giving up food is one thing, but water’s another, I’m afraid. Her eating disorders made her seem very light, apparently. Her supporters saw her floating above the ground from time to time.’
‘Like St Joseph of Copertino,’ said Domenica. ‘Didn’t he float?’
‘No, he actually flew through the air. There’s a distinction, you know. That’s why he’s the patron saint of air travellers.’
Leisurely discussions about saints and their doings; talk of artists and their frescoes – all conducted against a backdrop of a landscape so entrancing as to be reminiscent of that which the great artists of the Renaissance had chosen for their paintings – filled the morning so effortlessly that the arrival of noon was always a surprise.
Antonia was not forgotten. There was a daily telephone call to check up on her progress. At first this call was made to Santa Maria Nuova in Florence, and then, after her transfer to the countryside, to the convent at which she was being looked after by the Tiny Sisters. For the first few days they spoke to a nun who reported on Antonia’s condition, but after that the patient herself was allowed to come to the phone, and assured them that she was very comfortable and being well looked after by the sisters. ‘They are teaching me needlework,’ she said. ‘And I am joining in their devotions. The sisters are very welcoming.’ There was no mention of Giotto or Botticelli – a good sign, Domenica thought, in the circumstances.
And if Angus and Domenica found contentment in that place, so too did Cyril, perhaps to an even greater degree. For him the Italian countryside was an exquisite patchwork of possibility in which intriguing scents jostled one another for his attention. He had also made several new canine friends, a motley band of three high-spirited Italian dogs that had some connection with the nearby farm, although they did not appear to live there.
Their collars, inspected by Angus, for whom they had a particular affection, revealed their names: Claudio, Ernesto and Cosimo, and there were traces of an inscribed address too, but this had been worn away and was now unintelligible. The farmer’s wife fed these dogs, but disclaimed ownership; they were, she explained, dogs who had always been there, descendants of a dog that had once belonged to a wiry shepherd who had ridden with great distinction in the Sienese Palio years before. That was all she knew.
Cyril met up with these dogs every day and went off with them on some mission, the details of which Angus was never able to ascertain. They returned at midday, their tongues hanging out for the heat, and enthusiastically drained the bowls of water he put out for them.
‘It’s strange,’ said Domenica from her deckchair in the shade. ‘It’s very strange to think of Cyril having an independent existence. And yet he does, doesn’t he? Didn’t he have an affair once?’
‘It was very brief,’ said Angus. ‘They only saw one another once. It was in Drummond Place Gardens.’
‘And yet she had puppies, didn’t she? Six or seven, weren’t there?’
Angus nodded. ‘Yes. And their owner landed me with them.’
‘What happened to them, Angus? You never told me.’
Angus sighed. ‘I felt very bad about it,’ he said. ‘At least at first. I feared that I had made a terrible mistake giving them to a stranger whom I met walking through Drummond Place. Then I heard what had happened and I’m relieved to say the outcome was very satisfactory.’
Domenica raised an eyebrow. ‘They found a good home? All of them?’
‘Yes, as it happens, they did. They ended up in a small travelling circus in Ireland, would you believe? Finn MacNamara’s Jumping Dogs was the name of the outfit. They were trained to jump through hoops and so on. Apparently they’re very happy – dogs love performing. They’re based in Cork, but go all over Ireland doing their tricks.’
Domenica said that she thought this a very satisfactory ending. ‘As a child,’ she said, ‘I always wanted to join the circus. What child hasn’t?’
‘I wanted to go to sea,’ said Angus. ‘We used to go for holidays on Mull when I was a boy, and I loved watching the boats. I thought that there would be nothing more exciting than to be a stowaway. In fact, when I was eight, I tried to stow away on the MacBrayne ferry from Oban. My parents were watching me, of course, and saw me hiding in one of the deck lockers.’
Domenica laughed. ‘Not a good choice of ship,’ she said. ‘You would just have gone backwards and forwards between Oban and Mull. Until you were eighteen perhaps.’
‘And now …’ said Angus.
She waited for him to continue. What did he want to say? Those two words – and now – seemed to point to a whole hinterland of regret. And now it is too late. And now my dreams are but as dust. And now there is so little time left.
He said nothing further. She waited. A breeze, so gentle as to be almost undetectable, had blown up from the south, touching the branches of the olive trees, creating a ripple in the grey-green sea of leaves.
84. Icarus, Cyril, a Ducati
Nothing really happened – and then everything happened. Domenica would later find it difficult to reconstruct events: understandably, perhaps, so emotionally significant was that day, and so unexpected its central, crowning moment. Or was it really unexpected? Might she have detected in Angus’s look, in the manner in which he seemed to be weighing every word he uttered, in the way that his hand was trembling as he handed her a cup of coffee, that he was on the verge of some moment of annunciation? Perhaps; and yet she did not, with the result that when Angus suddenly cleared his throat and addressed her, she was not ready for what was said.
‘You know, Domenica, when you look at your life,’ he began, ‘by which I mean when I look at my life, I can hardly reflect upon it with complete satisfaction.’
Domenica disagreed. ‘I don’t know, Angus,’ she said reassuringly. ‘You’ve achieved something, surely. Your work is well regarded. You enjoy the privilege of being able to devote your time to painting – which is what you love, I believe. Many would consider you fortunate.’
Angus shook his head. ‘No. That’s kind, but no. I paint portraits of company directors and the like. That is all. I leave nothing of worth behind me – no great work, no painting that really adds to our artistic patrimony. I am, I’m afraid, something of a failure.’
Domenica frowned at this. Angus was not given to self-pity – something that she had heard him railing against in others. Was Angus coming down with delayed Stendhal Syndrome? Who would be next? Cyril? Was there a veterinary equivalent of the unusual condition; a version that struck dogs who were suddenly confronted with a tantalising choice of exotic scents?
‘Oh, I am aware of my relative good fortune,’ Angus said quickly. ‘And there is only one respect in which I might be more fortunate than I am already. And that is if you were prepared to …’
She looked at him politely. ‘Prepared to what?’
He was staring at the sky, as if inspiration were to be found in that quarter. Somewhere, over the hills, there was the drone of a tiny engine. Somebody is cutting wood with a buzz-saw … The line from that poem about angels in Italy; so evocative. And then, over the brow of a hill, still a speck in the clouds, came a minute aircraft – a wing under which a man was suspended by rigging yet invisible.
‘Icarus,’ muttered Angus.
Domenica looked up. ‘About suffering they were never wrong,’ she said quietly.
Angus had heard the line before; Domenica had quoted it to him on more than one occasion. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Auden is so right, isn’t he? Icarus falling – the boy’s white legs dis
appearing into the green sea – all unnoticed because the rest of the world has to get on with its business.’
There was a silence. The tiny aircraft approached and was soon overhead. Icarus could be made out quite clearly, and he spotted them and waved. Cyril, looking up, barked, in greeting or warning – it was hard to tell.
Domenica returned her gaze to Angus. ‘You were saying: would I be prepared. Prepared to do what?’
He took a deep breath. ‘To marry me,’ he said quietly.
It was easier than he thought. Icarus did not fall from the sky; the ground did not open; the earth did not wobble on its trajectory.
If Domenica was taken aback, she did not show it. ‘How kind of you, Angus,’ she said. ‘What a sweet question.’
He did not know how to interpret this. ‘I know I’m nothing much,’ he said. ‘And I have Cyril. And my clothes, I know, are a bit old-fashioned.’
She looked at his trousers, at the frayed collar of his shirt, at the scuffed moccasins. A man’s clothes were no impediment; look at what Elspeth had done for Matthew’s wardrobe. His crushed-strawberry corduroy trousers, the distressed-oatmeal sweater, were either dealt with already, Domenica believed, or soon would be.
‘Oh, Angus,’ she said. ‘You’re perfect as you are. You. Your clothing. Even your dog. All perfect.’ She paused, noticing his astonishment. ‘And as for your question, the answer is: of course. I’d love to marry you.’
He gave a cry, and reached out for her hands, gripping them tightly in his.
‘I didn’t think you’d say yes,’ he said. ‘I thought …’
‘But of course I’d say yes,’ said Domenica. ‘We’ve been friends for years, haven’t we? And we look on the world with much the same eyes, don’t we?’
Angus nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, we do. Certainly we do.’ He paused. ‘Of course, there is the question of …’ He looked over towards the place where Cyril was stretched out in the shade.
The Importance of Being Seven Page 30